


Kiss It Better

by KrisRix



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aggression, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood Loss, Bloodplay, Burns, Flirting, I'm hesitant to say there's bloodplay... but it's close, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Violence, Near Death Experiences, POV Third Person, Pining, Snow Day, Watford (Simon Snow), Watford Seventh Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 04:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19804873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: "I'm not plotting. So will you kindly bugger off?""If you're not, then why have you been acting weird lately?"Baz raises his eyebrow in that slow way that makes Simon's spine tingle. "You mean, vaguely civil?""Uh. Sure. That.""Because I had theclearly absurdhope that it might make you more likely to leave me the fuck alone."Simon thrusts a finger at Baz in triumph. It’s unimpressive, from so many meters away. "So you could plot something!""So I could have somepeace," Baz hisses.Simon rolls his eyes. "You'd have no idea what to do with yourself."The curl of Baz’s lip is achingly slow. "I'd love to find out," he drawls.It's a snow day at Watford! Simon is thrilled and wants to play and explore. Baz is cold and hungry and needs to hunt. When their paths cross in the Wavering Wood, the enchanting winter wonderland sets the perfect atmosphere for flirting—until a goblin attack slices through their moment.





	Kiss It Better

**Author's Note:**

> The biggest of thank yous to [tbazzsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) for her beta work, kindness, enthusiasm, and support!

All afterschool activities at Watford are cancelled due to a snowstorm. 

Simon is thrilled. (Not that he has any activities to get out of attending—being the Chosen One leaves him too busy for that sort of thing typically.) Any truly significant buildup of snow is somewhat rare here, and he has heard unhappy murmurings from the Minotaur that nearly a meter is expected—getting a chance to roll around in the wintry weather sounds like the perfect start to the weekend. 

Simon is jittery all throughout their final class of the day. He bounces his knee and is even more distracted than usual. He keeps watching the blustering outside the window, utterly enchanted by the way the snow piles up, flake by flake. 

Before the final moments of the class are even finished, Simon shoves his (barely touched) books into his bag. He scrambles up from his desk the second they're all dismissed. 

“It's just _snow_ , Simon,” Penny sighs with exasperation. “It's cold and wet and not nearly as fun as you think.” 

“I'm going to have plenty of fun, don't you worry!” Simon yells over his shoulder as he barrels towards the door. 

It isn't _completely_ intentional that Baz just so happens to be stepping into Simon's path at the last minute. Simon can't adjust enough in time and winds up smashing their shoulders together. 

Baz gives Simon a well-practiced sneer as they both stumble back from the impact. “ _Crowley_ , Snow.” 

Dev comes up alongside Baz and crosses his arms over his chest. He tries to sneer like Baz, but it isn't nearly as effective. “Don’t you ever look where you’re going, O Chosen One?” 

Simon balks at the two of them as he rubs his shoulder. “You got in front of me on purpose!” he grumps at Baz. 

Baz clucks his tongue and smooths a hand over his hair—though it's still perfect, of course. “Tell me: who do you blame all your misfortunes on when I’m not within the immediate vicinity?” 

“I don’t _have_ as many misfortunes when you’re not in the immediate vicinity!” 

The Grimm cousins laugh. “Do the Humdrum and dark creature attacks not count?” Dev prods. 

Simon squares his shoulders and glowers at Dev, and then more pointedly at Baz. “That depends. What kind of dark creatures are we talking about?” Baz’s eyes narrow into a menacing glare, and Simon loves the shiver Baz’s look elicits in him—a shiver of victory, surely. “Chimeras? _Vampires_?” 

Baz takes a threatening step forward, lip curling back as he begins his retort, but Penny quickly wedges herself between them. 

“All right, boys, enough!” she huffs. “Nicks and Slick, can’t be civil for twenty seconds, can you?” 

“Of course he can’t!” Simon grunts. 

Penny lightly whacks Simon’s shoulder. “You’re just as bad! Didn’t you want to go play in the snow?” 

Simon gasps. That’s right! Stupid Baz is such a stupid distraction— 

“See you later, Pen!” He rushes out the door, ignoring Dev’s snickering as he passes. 

“Isn’t that a little too on the nose, _Snow_?” Baz calls after him. 

Penny plants her hands to her hips and glares at Baz and Dev. “You know, a childish romp in the snow might do you both some good." She rolls her eyes. "So stuck up all the time.” 

Dev mutters a disinterested “piss off, Penelope” and Baz frowns. 

“I hate snow,” Baz hisses at her, voice icy, before turning on his heel to collect his bag and leave the classroom. 

* * *

Baz scowls and paces his (their) room at the top of Mummers. He keeps shooting agitated glances at the window, only upsetting himself further every time he sees the wintry winds blowing snow across campus. 

He hasn't fed well this week. It's been so fucking cold, and the Catacombs are dank and chilly enough as is. He hasn't spent long enough down there to truly drink his fill in several days, and last night it was so frigid out that he decided to skip entirely. 

That's fine for one night. But skipping two in a row approaches dangerous. Especially when he's already been feeding lightly. 

Baz is as aggravated with himself as he is with the storm. He shouldn't have skipped last night just because it was _cold_. He should have toughened up long enough to at least grab a snack. 

But it was impossible to leave last night. Simon had come in, fuming and leaking magic—it was the anxious and pained kind, not the furious fluster Baz liked to evoke. Turned out Simon had got himself in a full strop over Agatha. Something about their breakup last week, and how she was still doing her best to ignore him. 

" _It's like she doesn't even want to make this work. Us. Make us work_ ," Simon had grunted to himself. He had his sword out and was hacking at the air on his side of the room. 

Baz didn't quite have it in him to be a full-on arse—just a bit of one. " _Yes, I think that much is obvious_." 

Simon's sword work faltered. An embarrassed rush of magic bubbled out of him, washing over the room in a hot wave that made Baz's eyelids droop. 

" _What am I supposed to do_?" Simon asked, sounding soft and strained. He wasn't looking at Baz, hadn't looked at Baz at all since coming into the room. It was easier like that. He could just say things into the room, and maybe the room would answer. 

" _Move on_ ," the answer came. 

It was hardly a conversation, and yet it was possibly their most civil one yet. 

Simon was quiet for the rest of the evening. Sometimes he opened his mouth to try asking the room something else, but all that would come was another belated sigh of warm magic. 

How could Baz possibly leave, when Simon was a human furnace, wafting heat and scent throughout the room? How could he leave when Simon was so close to maybe talking more, asking _more_? 

But there wasn’t more. There were no more questions for the room that night. Baz should have left. 

He wouldn't be in this situation right now, if he had left—he would be able to skip tonight easily. But it's not like there was any way of knowing that this blizzard was coming—it's not like the Watford dorms get the fucking meteorology channel. 

So now Baz has to go hungry tonight instead, because there is no way in all the circles of hell he could be convinced to go outside in this shite weather. 

Not like Snow. Stupid, reckless, childish, exquisite Simon Snow. 

Baz scowls harder at the view outside his window. He can't see Simon from here, but Baz can picture him perfectly even so: the long line of Simon's neck as he tosses his head back and releases a joyous laugh that could cause a weaker man to weep; the way his snowy curls stick to his flushed face; the outline of his body as he makes snow angels on the Great Lawn. 

Baz groans and runs his hands over his face. Snow angels. He would. Snow really would. 

Seeing it in person is very nearly tempting enough of a thought for Baz to want to go outside after all. But not quite. 

* * *

The storm ends overnight. 

Come morning, Simon begins his clomping about the room. Baz groans into his pillow. 

After a quick wash up and change in the bathroom, Simon resurfaces to find Baz out of bed, glaring at the view from their window. 

“You’re up early.” 

Simon joins Baz by the window. He grins ear to ear at the sight: the air is still, the sun is bright, and the snow looks plush and thick. The light catches along the snow’s surface, where a thin crust of ice glitters magnificently, like diamonds. Baz squints, expression sour. 

“Whose fault is that?” Baz grunts. He drags himself away, huffily slamming the bathroom door behind him. 

Simon spent all of yesterday afternoon playing in the snow. Then he stuffed himself with as much warm, comforting food as possible—while getting chided by Penny for dragging half the storm into the dining hall with him. He went back for thirds, only partially due to hunger—the other part of him was wondering when Baz might show up. And a different part of him, a part he wouldn’t think about, was wondering if Baz would chide him too. What that interaction might be like. 

But Baz didn’t show up. He skipped dinner last night—real dinner, the living person kind. 

So Simon was sure to take the long route back to Mummers, kicking up as much snow as he could, getting himself well-coated in it. He entered their room and shook himself like a dog. Baz told him as much; he complained for a good long while. Simon quietly delighted in it. 

Now, Baz feels his corpse-ish-ness more strongly today than he has in some time. It’s not actually Simon’s noise-making which woke him. He’s painfully hungry in every sense of the word. As much as he wishes to stay under the hot shower spray until he feels close to a normal temperature again, he really needs to eat. 

Simon is understandably absent from the room by the time Baz emerges. Baz correctly assumes he’s off to fuel himself with a disturbingly large breakfast before diving right back into the winter wonderland outside. 

Dressed and bundled against the weather, Baz stands at the bottom of Mummers, sneering at the snow coating the campus. There’s less accumulation than anticipated—it doesn’t even reach Baz’s knee. But that’s more than enough to annoy him. 

He trudges through the snow, using other students’ paths as a guide. He’s fairly sure this one path is Simon’s—it’s a little hurried, uneven. He can picture Simon gracelessly trundling his way towards breakfast. Baz stays along this path. There is (almost) something nice about it. 

* * *

Simon looks up when Baz enters the dining hall. (Agatha does too. Baz ignores her.) Of course, Simon is dripping snow everywhere. Penny has given up on chastising him about it. 

“ **Dry as a bone** ,” Baz casts under his breath before entering further. And then, just to piss him off, Baz casts it again on Simon while passing by. Simon hates it when others spell him; Baz knows this and smirks. 

Breakfast passes uneventfully otherwise. Baz sips his tea, loaded with milk and sugar, and lets this act as a temporary stand-in for real food. He makes small talk with Dev and Niall, while surreptitiously pocketing two sausage and bacon butties for later. 

Simon shoots him glances now and then. Baz is sure not to goad Simon further, not even with sneering. He doesn’t want Simon to think he’s planning anything for the day. It’s not entirely successful. Simon squints at him suspiciously—Baz not goading him as almost as nefarious as luring him out to the woods. 

Perhaps, Simon thinks, something’s changed between them. Baz didn’t tease him about Agatha the other night. And Baz didn’t kick him out of the room last night when he arrived covered in snow. Didn’t even spell him clean that time. Perhaps, he thinks, Baz only did it now because they had an audience. They even stood at the window together this morning, nearly shoulder to shoulder. It almost seems like they’re on the cusp of something. Something _good_. 

And so, of course, this must be a plot. 

Simon finishes off his second helping of breakfast and excuses himself from Penny. (Agatha isn’t sitting with them. She hasn’t since the breakup. He’s started not caring.) (" _Move on_ ," Baz's voice reminds.) 

“Off to play in the snow some more?” Penny teases him, smiling warmly. It’s good to see him so excited about something. 

Simon only grins in response. He doesn’t like lying to Penny. 

* * *

Baz waits exactly six minutes after Simon leaves. Then he excuses himself from Dev and Niall, tugs his coat back on, and slips out of the dining hall. 

The snow now is far more littered with the paths of footprints. Some staff members have cast cleaning spells to make the journey between each building easier to traverse. Yet there is not, understandably, a clear path towards the Wavering Wood. 

Baz considers his options. He could go to the Catacombs and try to get his fill off rats. That will be difficult though, with how deep his hunger now is. Plus, the idea of traversing the Catacombs by day seems wrong. It’s a place of despair and bones—it feels sacrilegious to defile it with his presence before the sun has even reached its highest peak. 

He could feed from bigger game in the woods. Though, then he would need to contend with the blasted snow devils—and those don’t make for a good snack. (He assumes.) (They smell awful enough for Baz to never want to even entertain the thought.) More importantly than getting chestnuts chucked at his head, Baz is worried about the tracks he’ll leave. With no path open to the Wavering Wood, his footsteps will be glaringly obvious. 

He could spell them away, in theory—but it’s a waste of magic, and he’s so starved.... Surely Simon Snow is the only person who would find footsteps towards the woods suspicious, and Baz assumes he’s preoccupied with rolling about on the Great Lawn right now, flushed and glistening like a god. 

Baz pulls out the breakfast stuffed in his jacket and tucks in as he trudges towards the Wood. 

* * *

Baz manages to get through his breakfast sandwiches, one rabbit, and two squirrels. It's not enough yet. 

It's harder to hunt in the snow, despite the clear tracks. He needs to persist, ignore the cold and the wet creeping up his trouser legs. _Two more_ , he thinks. _That will do._

Baz finds one more, another squirrel, soon enough and makes quick work of it. Then, things get complicated. 

Simon's footsteps are not nearly as stealthy as he always thinks they are. The snow does a good job of dampening his inelegant prowling; perhaps a normal person might not notice him—but Baz is no normal person. 

Baz takes a moment to feel relieved that he was able to feed as much as he did before being found. It's a fleeting moment. Mostly, he's annoyed. Bloody Simon Snow can't give him any peace, can he? 

Simon is doing his best to breathe quietly (if he could dull his heartbeat, he'd try that too). Baz usually notices him by now. It's thrilling, to think maybe he'll actually be able to catch Baz in the act this time— 

_And then what?_

Well, it's not really worth thinking about, Simon supposes. 

There's no time to, anyway. 

Before Simon can even process it, Baz has whirled around to face him, wand out, sneering menacingly as he casts: " **Fall back**!" 

The spell hits Simon in the gut, shoving him hard. He lands roughly on his behind and can't even manage to yelp about it immediately, what with the way the air is knocked out of him. 

"You're such a pest!" Baz hisses. 

Simon groans ferally once he has the breath for it. "Really, Baz?" he complains, gesturing to the half-metre of snow swallowing him up. "In the snow?!" 

Baz's lip curls up. "Thought you liked the snow." 

"I don’t want to be sat in it!" Simon pulls himself to his feet and swats snow off his rear. "You're such a wanker." 

"If my presence is such an inconvenience to you," Baz drawls venomously, "then perhaps you shouldn't stalk me." 

Simon screws up his mouth. "It's not stalking if you're up to something." 

"First of all, yes, it is. And second of all, I'm not plotting. So will you kindly bugger off?" 

"If you're not, then why have you been acting weird lately?" 

Baz raises his eyebrow in that slow way that makes Simon's spine tingle. "You mean, vaguely civil?" 

"Uh. Sure. That." 

"Because I had the _clearly absurd_ hope that it might make you more likely to leave me the fuck alone." 

Simon thrusts a finger at Baz in triumph. It’s unimpressive, from so many meters away. "So you could plot something!" 

"So I could have some _peace_ ," Baz hisses. 

Simon rolls his eyes. "You'd have no idea what to do with yourself." 

The curl of Baz’s lip is achingly slow. "I'd love to find out," he drawls. 

Simon strides closer, shoulders squared, expression feisty. “Should we have at it proper, then?" As he nears, Baz can clearly see the unmistakable smirk on Simon's lips. "You’ve been trying to off me for years, why bother holding back any longer?” 

Baz stands his ground and keeps his one eyebrow arched high. "Are you begging me to off you, Snow?" 

Simon comes to a stop a few steps from Baz. He grins, hand hovering over his hip. "I'm sure you'd love to hear me beg." 

_This is flirting_ , Baz thinks. Freshly fed as he is, he knows his face is heating up traitorously. They're on the cusp of something, have been for days now. How easy it would be to clear that space between them and finally live out his fifth year fantasies of Simon Snow and blood and kisses— 

Simon’s proximity and cheeky grin means Baz is distracted—he notices the foreign stench in the air quite belatedly. The second the sour scent finally drills its way into his senses, Baz’s whole body goes tense with alarm, ready for a fight. He brandishes his wand with a flourish. 

Simon takes a half step back in surprise, not expecting the sudden seriousness of Baz’s demeanor. 

“Wait, I was only—” 

“Summon your sword,” Baz snaps in a hurry. 

"What? I'm not actually going to—" 

It’s too late by the time Simon thinks: _as always, Baz is right._ Because suddenly there's the scurrying of an attack coming up behind him, and Simon can hardly spin around in time, far less chant the entire incantation. 

It's a goblin, his blood red lips pulled back over pearly teeth. He’s snarling (handsomely) and brandishing a short blade (menacingly). He lunges at Simon. 

Simon stumbles back from the blade as it slices into his space. "Oi!" 

" **Stay back**!" comes Baz's booming voice. The spell shoves into the goblin, forcing him back no matter how earnestly he digs in his heels. 

Simon uses the opportunity to summon the sword—at least he's well practiced in spewing out the necessary words quickly. The weapon is within his grasp in an instant, which is good, because Baz's spell can't keep the goblin back much longer. 

“You _still_ have goblins coming after you, Snow?” Baz snarks, sounding bored in order to disguise how put out he feels over having their moment interrupted. 

“Seems like!” 

Baz lets the defense spell drop once Simon barrels forward, sword at the ready. The sudden release of magical pressure against the goblin’s chest causes him to falter. He throws himself out of the way of Simon’s first strike, the sword only managing to swipe at air. The goblin rolls to the side before quickly popping back up again. 

Simon readies his stance properly this time. A dagger is no match against a broadsword. All Simon has to do is get one good hit in, so long as the damn creature stays still long enough. 

Simon lunges. He feigns, then swings the other way. The goblin yelps with surprise but manages to duck before being impaled. 

Baz’s eyes follow the inelegant flurry of their duel. He doesn’t need to stay at the ready, wand still out. He doesn’t need to stay at all, really. This is the one thing Simon is undoubtedly skilled in. But it’s not (only) the desire to watch Simon so gloriously within his element that causes Baz to stay. There’s something else. 

Something isn’t right. 

The goblin is entirely on the defensive. It’s possible he’s too damn stupid to realize when he has an opening to attack, though Baz grows increasingly suspicious of his ineptitude. Yes, the creature looks terrified and is hardly holding his own—Snow really is quite good at this—but then why hasn’t the goblin switched tactics yet? Or at least run away? 

This is stalling. 

Baz keeps his wand pointed in the direction of the fight while allowing his senses to wander. Eyes slowly rove over their surroundings, nose breathes in deep for further scents, ears perk for suspicious sounds. 

He _hears_ the other goblin first. There’s a shuffle, and then the inopportune creaking of a branch. It takes a good deal of control not to dart his eyes towards the source immediately. But Baz is nothing if not a creature of self-control. 

Baz waits a few counts, in case the hidden goblin is watching for a reaction to his noisemaking. The two goblins have the same sour scent about them—it’s no wonder Baz didn’t notice the other sooner. 

Simon continues whacking away at the nimble goblin. It’s a battle of attrition, Baz can see that now. This one plans to tire Simon out, so that the other can attack. It’s idiotic, really. Snow has handled far worse than two goblins. 

Baz finally spots the other goblin, tucked up within the low branches of a tree. Perhaps he can circle around until he has better line of sight, then blast the goblin out of the tree.... 

“Will you just hold still already?” Simon barks after another ineffectual blow. 

He’s growing breathless, and his agitation is building. Going off would be the easiest solution at this point, though that feels too much like quitting. And besides, Baz is still skulking around in the fight’s periphery—going off could put him in danger too. 

To hell with it all—no more messing around. Simon releases a feral sound and launches himself at the goblin, furious and frantic. 

“Snow, wait—” Baz cries, but as usual, Simon heeds him too late. 

His passionate swordplay has led Simon directly under the hiding spot of the second goblin—and directly within Baz’s line of fire. 

It all happens very quickly after that. 

The second goblin jumps down beside Simon. He slices at Simon’s leg. Baz darts around for a better angle. He spells the second goblin still. Simon wastes no time reacting. He heaves his sword. Baz aims for the first goblin, casts the same spell. The second one’s head comes clean off. Lobbing off the first one’s head is easy after that. 

It’s all taken care of so swiftly, Simon and Baz can only stand there for a long moment, staring and breathing—or in Simon’s case, heavily panting. 

Once it’s clear to Baz that there will be no further movement from their headless adversaries, and that no others seem to be in hiding, he relaxes. He slips his wand back up his sleeve. 

“Well,” Baz begins on a sigh. But he doesn’t dare say anything more, as it’s only then he realizes his mouth is full with his fangs. He purses his lips shut and turns his back to Simon. 

Baz’s voice breaks Simon from his post-adrenaline daze. He shakes his head clear. He gives one of the goblin bodies a nudge with the sword’s tip. 

“They don’t usually team up.” Simon swipes a hand over his sweaty brow. “Guess I can’t count on that anymore.” 

The goblin blood is pungent, burning Baz’s nose. He needs to get out of here. 

“I’ll leave you to do the cleaning up then,” Baz says carefully. He gestures a lazy wave over his shoulder and strides off. 

“I’ll report it to the Mage first,” Simon explains as he makes to scurry after Baz. But Baz was a few meters away to begin with, and his stride is long and graceful, whereas Simon’s legs feel heavy and weak and wet—sticky. Goblin blood is a pain to get out. Maybe Baz will help him— 

Baz speeds up. Away from corpses and blood and Simon Snow. 

“Baz, wait!” 

They’ve never been good at heeding the other. 

“Baz!” 

He ignores Simon’s call. It sounds like Simon’s stopped following, and Baz doesn’t want the opportunity to go to waste. 

" _Baz_.” 

That call makes Baz stop. That call was small and warbled. That call was a plea. 

When Baz turns around, the distance between them does nothing to minimize the grave sight: Simon’s trousers are dark with blood. 

Simon stares down at himself in disbelief. It’s hard to process. He’s been covered in the blood of a variety of dark creatures before. He’s even had to scrub Baz’s blood off his knuckles more than once. He’s had his fair share of injuries as well, scrapes and cuts and busted lips. But he’s never had _this_ —never had a slashed trouser leg and a limb laden with wet fabric and more blood bubbling from the source—he’s never been _the source_. 

Simon drags his wide eyes away from the wound and stares across the woods at Baz. The Sword of Mages slips from Simon’s grip, crunching in the snow as it lands. Simon’s knees go out. He sinks down next to the sword, not caring about being sat in snow this time. 

Baz howls. 

He’s at Simon’s side in an instant. _Inhumanly fast_ , Simon thinks. And then, yes, there they are: Baz’s long, sharp fangs. They swell in his mouth as the thick scent of Simon’s blood fills his nostrils. 

_You wanted this_ , Simon reminds himself. However, he hadn’t thought it would be his own blood to out Baz as a vampire. He should have thought of that sooner. (Maybe he had. Maybe he didn’t want to.) 

These are easier things to focus on. 

“You’ll be fine,” Baz tries to assure, but even he can’t maintain a mask of indifference in a moment like this. “This will hurt.” The quick warning comes just as he begins packing snow against Simon’s thigh. 

“Can hardly feel it.” Simon attempts a smile. “Don’t even know when it happened. Can you believe that?” He emits a chuckle. “Leave it to me, huh?” 

“You’re a disaster,” Baz agrees, because that’s better than crying. His heart is hammering and his throat is tight. He channels his panic into efficiently applying ice and pressure to the wound. 

Simon always runs so hot, and he just had quite the workout—the snow is melting too quickly. It’s almost beautiful, the way his blood spreads throughout the white landscape, making the crust of snow glisten like rubies. 

“Um.” Simon can’t focus on much more than Baz’s fangs. “Can’t you spell it?” 

Baz makes a noncommittal sound. “There aren’t many spells effective against non-magical injury.” Even so, Baz drops his wand into his wet hand. “Get well soon!” 

The magic doesn’t come. It’s always difficult to cast around his fangs. Elocution is a necessary component of spells after all. Though, the wound is so treacherous, Baz doubts it would have worked even with the clearest diction. 

Simon gulps. “I don’t think that helped.” 

“I realize that,” Baz snaps, voice breaking. A second attempt at the spell is no more fruitful. 

It’s now that Simon begins to get nervous. 

“Try something else!” 

“ **As you were**!” 

The tear in Simon’s trousers mends itself. Baz tears the fabric back open to see if the flesh has done the same. It hasn’t. Simon curses; Baz whimpers. 

“Something else!” Simon grips Baz’s arm. They’re both trembling. 

Baz wracks his brain. **Time heals all wounds** is a good spell for accelerating recovery, but they don't have that much time. Everything else that jumps to mind is too risky—spells that are mainly for other purposes, but have been used for injuries, anecdotally. That's dangerous when Baz can hardly cast as is— 

Simon shakes him. "Baz!" 

“I don’t know anything else!” Baz confesses with a wavering voice. He drops his wand and presses both hands against Simon’s thigh while he desperately tries to think of _something_. 

“Kiss it better,” Simon blurts. “That’s a spell, innit?” 

Baz tosses his head jerkily. “That spell doesn’t work the way you think it does.” 

Simon’s grip on Baz’s arm tightens. “I know how it works,” he insists. “I spell you, then you kiss me. I can do it.” 

Baz flicks wild eyes to Simon. “It’s not _you_ that I’m worried about,” he bites out. “I would have to kiss the _wound_.” Simon can’t help but stare at his fangs when he speaks. 

“I know. Let’s do it.” 

" _No_.” 

“We have to try, Baz.” 

“You’re an idiot.” Baz’s voice catches. “We’ll think of something else.” A tourniquet, perhaps. Could that give them enough time to get Simon to the infirmary? 

“Baz,” Simon tries to growl, but it’s pathetically weak. 

“I can’t—“ 

“You _have_ to. Okay?” 

Baz stares at his hands, shoved against Simon’s leg, the two of them covered with snow and blood. “I _can’t_.” 

Simon grips Baz’s arms more urgently. “Baz,” he pleads. “C’mon. Do you really want to hear me beg?” He tries to laugh, but there’s hardly the energy for it. “ _Please_ , Baz. Okay? _Please_.” He tips forward, strength waning. 

The movement makes sunlight catch on Simon’s cross; Baz’s body stiffens. 

“Hold your sword.” Baz pulls all of his focus into sounding calm, commanding. He fixes Simon with as steady of a gaze as he can manage. “With the sword and your cross, you should be able to stop me if I...if I need it.” 

Simon swallows hard. “You won’t.” 

“I might,” he warns, with a grave scowl. “You have to be ready.” 

“Okay.” Simon relents. He grips his sword’s hilt, his fingers slippery with blood. “I’ll be ready. But I won’t need it. You’ll be fine, Baz.” 

Baz quivers. He can see how weakly Simon holds the sword. What if Simon isn’t able to stop him? What if he’s too weak to pry Baz off, even with the sword and cross? What if it isn’t enough? 

What if, with all of Baz’s willpower straining to keep him composed, what if it just isn’t enough? 

He has to try. Otherwise, Simon surely will die. 

Baz clenches his teeth and barely suppresses a fearful sob. 

“You’ll be fine, Baz,” Simon urges. He presses his free hand to Baz’s chest. “You’re going to save my life and get to hold it over me forever, all right?” 

Baz stares down at the wound with haunted eyes. Both of his hands are still fiercely applying pressure, yet the blood won’t stop bubbling forth— 

Baz doesn’t know who to pray to, or if a dark creature can even do such a thing—but if there is a higher power, he fervently hopes it doesn’t let Simon Snow be the one to die today. 

“Swear you won’t hold back if I get lost,” Baz whispers, voice wet and breathless and garbled around his fangs. 

“You won’t get lost. You’ll stay with me.” 

Baz wrenches his gaze away from the wound to pin Simon with his fearful, tear-brimmed eyes. “Swear it!” he bellows. His wet fangs glisten menacingly in the glaring winter sun. 

There’s a flash where Simon looks like Baz—terrified and ready to cry—but then it’s gone just as quick. He sets his jaw, nods, and tenses his sword arm as best he can. “I swear it.” 

There’s no more time to wait. 

“Then spell me,” Baz commands. 

Neither one fears that Simon won’t be able to cast the spell. His magic has a funny way of working when it’s most needed—and if there was ever a time it was needed, this is it. While that doesn’t mean Simon has terribly good control over his magic, even under duress, that is fortunately exactly what they’re hoping for this time. They need an unfathomable, godlike display. They need a miracle. 

Simon closes his eyes and tries to let it all rush to the surface. He tries to imagine losing his edges, letting it all burst forth. He tries to imagine it not like going off, but like the blood that is so eager to flee him right now: a pounding pulse of energy, unable to be contained. 

Baz’s skin tingles where Simon’s hand is pressing to his chest. It shouldn’t work like that—Simon hasn’t even cast anything yet—but that sort of irregularity is exactly what Simon’s life depends on right now. 

The magic gushes from Simon’s body, spilling out in all directions, most prominently through his fingertips. The sword and Baz both glow with it as Simon’s power blooms through them. Tears spill from Baz’s eyes—tears of fear and love, but also tears of bliss and relief. 

It will be enough. 

The spell will be enough. Simon’s resolve to use the sword will be enough. 

“ **Kiss it better** ,” comes Simon’s voice, rolling through the space between them like thunder. 

Simon’s magic overtakes Baz, blending with his own, with his heart and with his soul, until he can’t tell where he ends and Simon begins— 

No. He knows where he ends. In his lips. Baz can feel it, the tingle and pull in his mouth. That’s the only part of himself that he needs to be aware of right now. It’s the only part of him that needs to be one with Simon. He focuses his swirling mind on this, rather than on the potential terror of killing Simon, or the way he longs to disintegrate in the hot rush of Simon’s magic. He only focuses on the burn of his lips and the trajectory to Simon’s bloodied thigh. 

Baz holds his breath and makes contact. 

Simon’s touch leaves Baz, closing off the flow of magic in that direction. As Baz shoves his tightly clenched lips to the slash of skin, the flow reverses. The spell pours out of Baz and floods the wound. 

Simon hisses against the sensation. His entire world is burning, the pain blinding him far more than the slice of the blade did. 

Baz shoves his mouth against the length and width of the wound, over and over, making sure to bury the magic deep inside, to force its reach into the artery, into the veins, into every capillary, into every layer of flesh. 

Eventually, the pain begins to subside. All of Simon’s tension fades away on a long sigh. It’s not done, but it’s working and it doesn’t hurt and Baz is saving his life. 

Simon can distantly feel Baz’s trembling and feverish desperation as he lays kiss after kiss. Simon stares down at the bizarre sight: 

Baz’s hands still clench Simon’s leg on either side of the wound; his tendons are taught with the exertion of his grip. His head moves in small ways, following the injury with obsessive care. His hair has fallen into his face, into the blood, but Simon can still see how Baz’s expression is scrunched up, how he’s painted with red, how his tears make tracks in the gore. 

Simon keeps one hand lightly on the sword and uses the other to brush back Baz’s hair. 

“Stay with me, Baz,” he says softly. “It’s almost done. All right? Stay with me.” 

Baz’s control unravels further and further as the magic leaves him. His body heaves with each hungry breath through his nose. His senses are filled with the sticky sweet scent of Simon’s blood. 

“That’s good, you’re doing it, Baz,” Simon murmurs. 

The rush of Simon’s blood is getting farther away as each layer of skin closes up, one after the other. Even as Baz’s direct access to the blood flow is lessened, it still rings out too loudly in his skull. 

“That’s it.” Simon’s fingers continue to slip through Baz’s hair. “That’s good, Baz.” 

Baz’s teeth grind as he crushes his jaws together. The desire to part his lips, to open his mouth for just one taste, causes his salivary glands to churn in anticipation. 

“You did it, Baz.” He rubs his touch along Baz’s scalp. “You can stop.” 

Just one taste would be fine, wouldn’t it? There’s already so much blood here. The scent of it is choking him. It’s not like he would have to bite Simon. He could lick once. Just for one taste. 

“Come on back, Baz.” Simon’s voice breathes out from somewhere far away. 

But why only one lick? Why not more? There’s enough. He could drink well off how much blood there is. He could lick Simon clean. 

“It’s enough, Baz. Come back.” 

And really, he’s already lost this much. A little bit more probably wouldn’t hurt at this point. One little bite would be nothing in comparison. 

“Come back. Come back to me, Baz. Stay with me. Baz. Baz, please.” 

He wouldn’t have to bite an artery. There’s something nice about the idea of feeding off veins, where the pressure is lower, and there’s no need to rush. He could take a nice, long drink. Just to get a taste— 

“ _Baz_!” 

Baz gasps at the firm tug of Simon’s hand in his hair. He wrenches himself back so fast, he narrowly misses crashing his head into Simon’s. 

Simon laughs with relief. “You did it.” 

Baz’s whole world tilts and swirls in a desperate attempt to narrow back into the situation at hand, his hunger be damned. He fixes fearful eyes to Simon’s leg. 

“You did it,” Simon says again. “Baz. Baz, you fucking hero. You did it.” 

He did it. 

Simon is still talking, babbling something or other. Baz can’t pay attention to it. He scrambles back gracelessly, throwing himself away from Simon by a few meters. He curls over the snow on all fours and spits and shudders and heaves. He scrubs handfuls of clean snow against his mouth and repeats the process, over and over, until his face is raw. Until the blood is no longer up his nose. Until he’s sure no taste of Simon lingers on his lips to tempt him. 

The scent was enough. The scent will haunt him forever. Baz can’t fathom what it would do to him to know the _taste_. 

And oh, Merlin, how he tried so hard to convince himself to taste it.... 

Baz hurriedly dries his face with his shirt-tails, then stumbles his way back to Simon. This isn’t actually over yet, he needs to stay focused— 

Simon hasn’t moved from his spot, though he’s let the sword dissolve away, back to wherever it goes while it waits to be summoned once more. Simon’s flesh is healed, but he’s still sitting in a pool of blood, and he looks dazed. When Baz approaches, Simon’s fingers reach for him, weakly hanging on the lapels of Baz’s peacoat. 

“Are you okay?” Simon’s eyes search Baz’s snow-scrubbed face. 

Baz emits a strangled, incredulous sound. “Am _I_ okay?” 

Simon nods and keeps nodding, feeling rather like an uncontrollable bobblehead, body loose and disoriented. “Yeah. Yeah, you.” 

Baz huffs out another sound. He doesn't resist pressing his shaky (cold, snowy, bloody) hands to Simon's jaw, stilling him. 

“I'm fine, you nightmare.” His tone is too sweet, and his mouth is still full. There's still so much blood. “Worry about yourself, Simon. Are _you_ okay?” 

Simon, idiotic and brave Simon, grins at him like this the best thing to happen to him all day. “Yep.” 

Baz releases him because it's too much. Everything is still too much. 

Baz grasps his wand. “Clean as a whistle,” he tries. His voice is raw and his enunciation is still disastrous. He grunts and tries again, futilely. 

Simon's grin screws about, rearranging his expression into a confused frown instead. His face feels funny from where Baz touched it—icy cold and a bit sticky. It's not a fix, but the only thing Simon can think to do is to touch Baz's face in return. 

Baz flinches at the touch, yet for some reason allows it. And then, leans into it, when he feels Simon's bubbling heat send sparks through his body for the second time. Simon is glowing, radiant, shining through the snow and blood and sweat—and then Simon's magic is lighting them up, making them _both_ glow, burning them clean as if Baz doesn't even have to say the words: 

“ **Clean as a whistle**!” 

The words are still slurred, and by all accounts, the spell likely shouldn't work, at least not very well, but it _does_. Simon's bottomless fount of power rips through Baz's garbled sounds and sears them both pristine. Baz isn't sure if it's due to Simon's magic or just the startling _lack_ of blood, but his fangs retract immediately. He's never felt so pure. 

Simon releases a breathy chuckle. “That's one clean whistle,” he marvels stupidly. 

“You're an idiot,” is the only thing Baz can think to say, and it sounds to his own ears far too close to ‘ _I love you_ '. 

Simon's hands continue to hold Baz's face, and his eyes fall to Baz's mouth when he speaks. Baz self-consciously licks his lips. Simon is transfixed by the movement—and belatedly, by the blood he sees on Baz's tongue. 

It doesn't occur to Simon that the blood is anything other than the truth: it's Baz's. “You're hurt.” 

“I'm fine.” Baz tries to bat Simon's hands away, but Simon is having none of it, of course. He leans in to inspect, audaciously tugging down Baz's bottom lip. The flesh inside is torn in twin grooves. 

“Your fangs hurt you.” 

“I'm fine,” Baz insists again. He grips Simon's wrists and pushes him away and swallows the blood in his mouth. He's painfully grateful that the blood in his mouth is his _own_. (Not Simon's. He didn't drink Simon's.) (Almost. But didn't.) 

“I could kiss it better.” Simon peers at Baz with a dazed intensity. He reaches out again, unperturbed by Baz trying to keep him off. “Heal you. Kiss you. Kiss it better,” he babbles. 

Baz is too flabbergasted to retort right away, and that's the funniest expression on Baz he's ever seen, so he laughs. And when he laughs, it makes his head swim. 

“I think I'm delirious.” 

Baz sighs heavily. “You're always delirious, Simon.” He shifts, turning his body away, not only to save himself from delirious Simon kisses. “You've lost an absurd amount of blood. We need to get you to the infirmary. Get on my back.” 

It doesn't occur to Simon to respond in any way other than agreement. He hums a note of approval and drapes himself over Baz's back. He's hoisted up, and then Baz walks them towards the grounds proper, moving briskly despite being encumbered by Simon and snow. 

“You're strong,” Simon says as he tries to find a comfortable place to rest his cheek. Every movement makes his head swim more—and he can't be certain of it, but he thinks he's blacking out. 

“Yeah,” Baz says. 

“Cuz you're a vampire.” 

“Yeah,” Baz says again, much slower. 

“Wicked.” 

And then Simon’s world goes dark. 

* * *

There was a panicked moment where Baz feared Simon managed to die, despite them closing the wound. However, Simon's shallow breathing and tiredly thumping heart were so incredibly close—each soft puff and pump reassured Baz that it was okay. Simon would be okay. 

Now, Baz stands alone outside the infirmary. Simon is still unconscious but in good hands. The nurse briskly set him up with wards and blood and fluids and monitors. Baz couldn't watch. 

Knowing him, Simon will likely bounce back quickly. Baz knows there's a short window of time before Simon is awake. He wants to use that time well. 

Baz drags his body across the campus again. He's never felt so thoroughly out of sorts before. There's a wrenching hunger in his gut that he fears he'll never be free of; a ghastly fatigue in all his bones, but most prominently his jaw; and a searing pain where Simon's cross pressed sanctimoniously against him while being carried, digging into the hollow between Baz’s shoulder blades, effect only slightly dampened thanks to the layers of coat and uniform. 

But there's also a deep, gnawing relief that Simon Snow is alive. He's _so alive_. Baz's entire body still thrums with the reverberations of Simon's burning magic, echoing through the hollow acoustics of his undead body and filling him with a sense of really, truly being alive himself for the first time. 

It will fade. Baz knows this. And after, he's sure there will be a Simon-shaped scar within the remaining dregs of his soul. He's as sure of this as he is that his heart is already scorched deep with a Simon-shaped scar, as he is that all of his thoughts are already Simon-shaped scars, as he is that the cross burned into his back will also be a physical Simon-shaped scar he'll now forever have to carry. 

Baz uses the fading pulse of Simon's strength to drag himself up the steps of Mummer's House. He smooths his hands over his hair, and then his clothes, and puffs himself up. 

Dev and Niall both jump in surprise when Baz swings open the door to their room without warning. His gaze is cool and level, staring down his nose at his startled companions. 

“You,” Baz says to Dev, as they both bluster in annoyance at his entrance. “Library.” Baz flicks his eyes to Niall. “You. Cloisters.” 

“What are you on about, Baz?” Dev snorts. 

“Find Bunce.” 

Niall pushes himself off his bed, tossing aside the notebook he was only half doing homework in. “What's going on?” he asks, though they all know it doesn't really matter. 

“Snow nearly died, and I was unfortunate enough to be the one who had to save his life.” Baz does his best to look and sound as unaffected as possible. It's difficult, when Simon's scent still lingers in his nose, his taste on Baz's lips, his power in Baz's veins. “He's recovering in the infirmary, and I am feeling just charitable enough towards his sorry state to want him to have Bunce there when he awakes.” 

Dev and Niall share a long, tense look at one another. All three boys know that Baz isn't himself. No one dares address it. 

Niall nods and shoves his trainers on. “All right, mate. I'll go look for her.” 

Dev rubs at his nose. “We find her, we tell her to head to the infirmary, yeah?” 

Baz nods. “Yeah.” 

Good men. 

* * *

Baz waits inside the infirmary this time. Simon looks absolutely serene. Baz is sure to stay on the opposite side of the room, though he makes no attempt to disguise the way he watches Simon breathe. 

The nurse is on the phone with the Mage. He's off on some excursion with his Men. Baz wishes she didn't call, but it's a better scenario than the Mage already being on campus—surely he would have immediately swept in here and demanded answers from Baz directly, in no kind form. 

“Oh yes, he'll be fine,” she says. “Just needs a bit of time to recover, he does. Get some blood back in him, maybe a sandwich, he'll be good as new. Yes. Yes, it was Mr. Pitch. Yes, that's right, Basilton Pitch.” 

Baz's eyes slide to the nurse despite himself. She gives him an awkward tilt of her wrinkled lips. 

“You'll have to ask Simon that yourself once he wakes up,” she says into the phone, looking away from Baz again. “Yes. Yes, all right.” She checks the time on the aggressively loud clock hanging on the wall. “Yes, he ought to be alert by then. All right. Of course. Yes. All right. See you then, sir.” 

She hangs up and sighs. Baz hopes she doesn't try to strike up a conversation with him about it. Her lips part, but then the door is flung open, and Penelope Bunce comes barreling in. 

“Simon—!” 

Baz hisses at her. “He's resting!” 

Penny wheels on him, eyes wide. “What did you do?” 

It feels good to sneer fully again, Baz thinks. “Saved his life, Bunce,” he scoffs. “I'll accept your appreciation in the form of you not interrogating me.” 

Penny screws up her mouth. She inhales deeply through her nose for a long moment, collecting herself. 

“What happened?” she asks finally, with markedly less venom, though not without entirely. 

“Goblins.” 

Penny rolls her eyes. “ _Goblins_ ,” she repeats knowingly. “—Wait. Plural?” 

“Two.” 

“They finally thought to work together, huh?” 

Baz stuffs his hands in his pockets. “It appears so. We took them down, but not without one making a good slash at Snow's leg. He nearly bled out.” 

Penny lifts her brows up high, and then a moment later lowers them again pensively. “And how were you involved with this?” 

“You know Snow,” Baz says, dismissively gesturing his hands to fan out his pockets. “He was tailing me. The goblins were tailing him. I was dragged into his little scuffle and forced to save his life.” 

Penny peers at Baz long and hard. She folds her arms across her chest. There's something frightfully intimidating about her, and it makes Baz feel like a child for an awful moment. 

“I'm supposed to believe Simon was attacked by goblins, _at Watford_ , and you just happened to be there to save him from bleeding out?” 

Baz holds her gaze with more calm than he has the reserves for. It's slipping. “Yes.” 

“And how did you handle that, Basilton?” Penny's voice somehow manages to be more even and cool than Baz's own. He'll allow himself to be thoroughly impressed with her in secret later. 

“Quite well, I'd say, given he's alive.” 

“ _How_?” 

“Why don't you ask Snow once he wakes up?” His voice is too loud, too cutting. Baz hates that her distrustful prying is riling him up. 

“I'm asking _you_ ,” she growls, taking a step toward him. 

“Pen—” faintly comes Simon's scratchy voice, but neither hear it. 

“It's unfathomable that you're not the least bit grateful,” Baz hisses. 

“I just find it a little against character,” Penny continues, needling him with a maternal ferocity that makes Baz feel things he doesn't wish to feel. “Everyone knows you want Simon dead.” 

“Penny—” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Baz snarls darkly, baring his teeth. “By _my_ hands! Not goblins!” 

“ _HEY!_ ” 

Penny and Baz both jump at the sound of Simon's booming irritation from across the room. 

“Simon!” Penelope’s entire demeanor changes, relief and love flooding her expression and voice. She hurries across the room to him, nearly throwing herself at him in a hug. 

“Careful!” the nurse chides. She comes over to check on Simon's tubes and monitors. Baz looks away. 

Simon laughs, a hoarse sound, and rubs Penny's back. “I'm okay, Pen.” 

Penny pulls back to peer at him with a searching gaze. “What happened?” 

“You heard. Goblins. One slashed my leg open real good. Baz saved me.” 

Simon's eyes find Baz's. Simon feels tired and like he's been run over and run through several times, but he still has it in him to smile. It's a faint smile for him, though not lacking in radiance. 

Baz can't even remember _how_ to smile right now, so the warmth and relief manifest in a different way: a relaxing of his shoulders and a faint crinkle around his eyes. It's enough for Simon. 

Penny's gaze jumps between the two of them as they wordlessly exchange whatever it is they're exchanging. 

“Baz…,” she says. He takes immense satisfaction at the uneasiness in her voice. “Thank you.” 

He raises a brow at her. It manages to be impressive even from across the room. 

Penny thins her mouth into a line. “And, sorry,” she adds at length. 

Baz removes his hands from his pockets and focuses his attention on fixing his cuffs. “Apology and appreciation both accepted.” He does his best to sound bored with the entire ordeal—it will make for an easier exit. Baz collects up his coat and starts for the door. 

“Wait, Baz—” Simon sputters, because he is Baz's constant foil. 

“What, Snow.” 

“Um, well—” 

Baz yanks open the door. “Spare me.” And then he's gone. 

Simon groans noisily and looks at Penny. “How come _you_ got to thank him?” 

Penny laughs. She crawls up onto the medical cot with him as he shifts over to make room. (They both ignore the nurse clucking at them over it.) 

“Si, really though,” Penny says, voice dropping to a whisper as her head drops to his shoulder. “Baz really saved you?” 

“Ah…yeah.” 

“While you were, you know, bleeding?” 

Simon curses the monitors for openly broadcasting the quickening of his pulse. 

“Um. Yup.” 

Penny peers up at him pointedly. “And how did that go?” 

“Fine!” Simon says too fast. “Great! Yeah. It was fine.” 

“And great,” Penny reminds. Simon can't bring himself to look at her, but he knows she's squinting at him. 

“Yep. Yeah. Fine and great. Lived to tell the tale!” He laughs too loud. 

Penny, wonderful and intelligent Penny, merely sighs. She gets comfortable against his side again. 

“All right. Good.” 

He's never been so appreciative of her support. 

* * *

Baz spends most of the next few hours holed up in their room. 

At first, this feels normal. It's been their room for nearly seven years, after all. It's more his room than where he sleeps in Hampshire. This is his space. His and Snow's. _Their_ space. 

And then it's uniquely awful, as the gravity of the afternoon's events begins to creep up on him. Dark tendrils of anxiety slither in his veins, eager to fill the vacancies that Simon's dissipating magic are leaving behind. 

Simon Snow nearly died. It's not remotely hyperbolic to say so. A few minutes more, a little bit less control, and Baz would be having an entirely different evening. He would be coldly ignoring the unmade bed of his deceased nemesis and roommate and secret love, rather than gazing upon it like he is now with far more appreciation than a mussed-up bed deserves. He would be frantically packing his bags before the Mage and his Men came for him with pitchforks, rather than waiting desperately for Simon to be discharged. 

Baz realizes that perhaps he should be packing after all. Simon knows now. If the nurse's conversation on the phone is any guide, the Mage is coming back to see Simon—and there's no reason for Simon to not spill the entire story. He likely already told Bunce. 

Simon Snow finally has one of Baz's secrets, the one he's worked so desperately to uncover all these years. 

Baz tries to calm himself with a hot shower. He resists the urge to scrub himself raw. He knows he's not still covered in Simon's blood, but the visuals haunt him just the same. He loves the golden idiot so immeasurably, Baz is convinced he'd be haunted by the blood even if he weren't a vampire. 

The water irritates the burned out gouge high up between his shoulder blades, which is the final straw. He leaves the shower feeling no less fucked up. 

Baz resists the frantic urge to pack, to flee. He is a Pitch. A Pitch stands his ground. 

Later, after some suppressed panicking and a walk and some dinner and some more panicking, he sits on his bed with a book. He's just starting to feel a bit calmer when he hears footfalls along the final set of stairs leading up to their room. Baz experiences a terrifying moment of thinking it's the Mage—but no. He knows better than that. He knows those footsteps all too well, and the sweet, smokey scent that accompanies them. His body buzzes with this knowledge as Simon pushes open the door to their room. When their eyes meet, Baz's blood sings for Simon's nearly-faded magic—or any part of Simon—to burn him again. 

Simon wasn't expecting any other outcome than finding Baz in the room, yet there's a twinge of relief anyway. He smiles at the vampire boy who was still his enemy mere hours ago and now seems to be so much more. What though, Simon isn't sure. 

“Hey,” Simon greets. He just spent several hours on that medical cot, yet he’s still a touch wobbly, and his own bed has never seemed so welcoming. 

Baz looks back at his book and pretends to read. “You should shower,” is all he says as Simon flops face first onto his bed. 

Simon groans into his pillow. “Yeah, huh?” He turns his head to peer at Baz. “Hey, um, Baz—” 

“Go,” Baz says firmly. “You reek.” 

Simon relents, shoving back up from the bed. He groans a complaint the whole way to the bathroom. 

“Your clothes,” Baz reminds, without looking up. 

Simon unleashes a new series of disgruntled sounds while collecting his pyjamas. Baz doesn't tease him about his vocalizations, to both of their surprise. 

Simon really wants to talk to Baz, but frankly, a shower does sound fantastic. He knows he smells of sweat and alcohol swabs and the weird funk that clings all over the infirmary. 

He takes his time. He feels sore all over from the ordeal, but also riled up and like his muscles want to leap right off his bones—the warm water brings the disparate sensations closer together to something a bit more normal. 

Simon inspects his leg as he dries off. There's not even the faintest mark of the gash. He can picture the injury so clearly—wide and lumpy and gushing—but no evidence remains. He touches the flesh. Perfectly normal. He thinks of Baz's lips there. 

Simon hurries with getting dressed. When he emerges, Baz is still reading on his bed. Simon takes a seat on the edge of his own bed, facing Baz. 

“Thank you,” Simon says, before he can't get the words out again. 

“Don't thank me for saving your life. I didn't have an alternative option.” 

Simon smirks. “Sure you did. Two of them. But you didn't take them.” 

“I assure you it was more for my own livelihood than your own, Snow.” 

Simon can feel his grin growing wider. Of course Baz can't say ‘you're welcome’ like a normal person. 

“Okay,” Simon allows. “Thank you for dinner, too.” 

Midway through a page turn, Baz's fingers still for a brief moment. “I don't know what you're talking about.” 

Simon knows that tone of Baz’s. It’s the ' _you just made some quip about me being a vampire, and I’m going to make you feel stupid for bringing it up_ ’ tone. (But he is a vampire.) (Merlin, Baz is a _vampire_.) Simon has never easily let that tone slide. 

“I woke up from a nap, and there was dinner waiting for me,” Simon explains with marked patience, because Baz is being stupid, and he enjoys it being the other way around for once. 

Baz sneers at his book. “What makes you think it was me and not Bunce? Or your precious Wellbelove?” 

Simon leans back on his hands. “It wasn’t Penny. She had left to go get me dinner, and that’s when I fell asleep. But when she came back with food, I had already eaten what _you_ left for me.” His smile spreads. “Not that I let what Penny brought go to waste, of course.” 

“Of course.” 

“And it probably wasn’t Agatha, because unless you told her, the only other person who would have told her was Penny. But if Penny told her, it would have been _while_ Pen was getting me food, so then why would Agatha also get me food?” Simon shrugs. “And besides, you know, things with her have been awkward. I don’t think she would have done that.” 

Baz aggressively claws a nail at the corner of the hardcover textbook, picking away at the fold of fabric over the corner. 

“And I feel like the nurse would have mentioned if I had a visitor, other than you,” Simon concludes, feeling rather gloriously proud of himself. Baz doesn’t need to look over to picture the shit-eating grin Simon’s wearing. 

“Hm,” Baz eventually grunts. “How disturbingly perceptive of you, Snow. Did your near-death experience rattle your brain into basic competency?” 

Simon doesn’t let Baz’s prickly words and demeanor deter him. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Maybe a little,” he concedes. “Seems to have rattled you, too, yeah?” 

Baz snaps his book shut. The sharp thud of it rings out in the space Baz refuses to fill with his voice. He gets up and deposits the book on his desk. He hesitates there. 

Simon isn’t sure what else to say. He’s sure there’s quite a lot to say, really. He’s sure there’s quite a lot Baz _isn’t_ saying. 

“So, yeah. Thanks,” Simon says again. As shite as he is with his words, the silence is worse. 

Baz really did bring him dinner—a heaping serving of chicken and potatoes, all smothered in gravy, alongside three heavily buttered scones wrapped in a cloth. Simon was immensely, immeasurably grateful when he woke up and saw the food. He assumed he slept through Penny’s return, and that she merely left him the food to enjoy upon awaking. The reality of who his first dinner’s donor could be didn’t hit him until Penny entered a few minutes later, carrying a very similar plate of food for Simon (though with added steamed vegetables and only one scone—not as enjoyable). 

The realization hit Simon in the chest with the same force as one of Baz’s punches. But this impact ached far more strongly than getting slugged ever did. 

Baz pulls out a different book and sits heavily at his desk. Perhaps if he engrosses himself in next week's Magical Words paper, he can distract himself. So long as Simon stays quiet. 

Which he doesn't, of course. 

"Oh, right," Simon announces a little too loudly—Baz flinches. "How's your lip?" 

"What?" 

"Your lip got fucked up, yeah? From your fangs?" 

Baz's hand snaps up into the air to silence Simon. "We're not talking about this." 

"It looked pretty nasty, Baz." 

"What did I just say?" Baz shoots Simon a venomous glare. 

It doesn't deter him. "I heard you," Simon says with a shrug. He pushes himself off his bed and takes a step towards Baz's desk. "I feel responsible. You got hurt because of me." 

"I'm fine," Baz snaps. He looks back at his book. "It will heal soon enough." 

Which was the wrong thing to say, because it gives Simon something to latch onto. 

"We can use that spell again," Simon suggests without thinking. 

" _Fuck. Off_." 

Simon grins and shifts his weight on his feet, moving a bit closer to Baz's desk in the process. 

“You might not know this, but the hero is supposed to get a kiss after he saves the day.” 

“And due to your lack of kisses from Wellbelove these days, you're turning to _me_?” 

“ _No_ , Baz. _You're_ the hero today.” 

Baz makes this sound like he's trying to scoff, but to Simon, it sounds more like he's choking. 

“Don't you dare kiss me, Snow.” 

Simon grins at him. “Too proud? Just gonna suffer through the wounds?” 

“Yes,” he hisses. “That is exactly my intention.” 

Simon shakes his head. “And people say _I'm_ stubborn.” 

“Go away, you deranged muppet.” 

For some reason, Simon laughs. Baz pulled him back from the brink of death, they held each other and panicked together, trusted each other so wholly—and yet Baz is acting like this is just another little Simon and Baz spat. It's ridiculous—exactly what Simon should have expected, but still ridiculous. 

“Baz, seriously....” Simon approaches his desk the rest of the way. When he leans against it, Baz leaps from his chair. 

“Woah, woah—!” Simon gawks at him in surprise. “What's with the overreaction?” 

Baz seethes and balls his hands up into tight fists. Shaking fists. “Go. Away.” 

Simon frowns at him now. This is ridiculous too, but not in a funny way. “What's your problem?” 

“We’re not suddenly best chums, Snow,” Baz snarls, because he can’t allow himself to say the things he really wants to say. “Go back to your side of the room. Haven’t I had to deal with you enough today?” 

From any other person, the tone with which Baz speaks would sound cold and cruel and collected. But coming out of Baz, who is so thoroughly those things at all times, it’s easy to spot the uncharacteristic tightness, the tweak of anxiety lifting his inflection a touch higher than usual. Simon picks up on it immediately. 

“You’re freaking out,” Simon points out, unhelpfully. “You’re shaking, Baz.” 

“Leave me alone.” 

“Sit down,” Simon urges. “Take a breather.” 

Baz sneers at Simon, baring his teeth. Simon’s eyes go right to them. They both know it’s from interest and not fear, and neither one knows how to feel about that. 

“It’s late, and I’m tired,” Baz grinds out with the thinnest of patience. “Go to bed.” 

Simon shakes his head. He starts to take a step forward, but Baz’s tenseness gives him pause. 

“I’ve been sleeping all day, and I know you’re not going to sleep like this.” Simon tries to look empathetic and comforting—he’s not terribly good at controlling his face. His emotions are too visceral. He mostly just looks confused yet determined (which he is): brow furrowed, chin out. 

“I don’t need a bonding session with you, Snow.” Baz hates that his voice keeps betraying him. It’s been useless to him all day. 

“Maybe _I_ do,” Simon blurts, and then he does take that step closer. “Maybe this is for me, then.” 

“Everything’s always for you.” It’s supposed to be vicious. It comes out reverent. 

Simon takes another step without thinking. “I almost died.” 

“I’m aware.” 

Another step. A Pitch stands his ground. 

“I don’t want to keep fighting, Baz. I can’t go back to fighting with you after everything today.” Simon hasn’t thought this through. He doesn’t think it matters. It’s a simple fact. This boy isn’t his enemy. He never has been. 

There’s less than an arm’s reach between them now. Baz shoves his arm into that space—not touching, barricading. 

“Don’t come closer.” 

Baz looks _so_ scared. Simon’s seen enough scared Baz for one day. For one lifetime. 

“Why?” Simon squints his boring blue eyes, and Baz has to look away. “What’s going on with you?” 

Baz’s confession comes as a whispered hiss, hanging in the air, coaxing the hairs on the back of Simon’s neck to stand up: “I can still feel you. Your magic. I can still hear your heartbeat. How it was fading. It’s too much.” It’s all too much. He’s saying too much. 

Baz lets his arm fall. 

Simon thinks perhaps that his heart is making up for the lost beats right now, pounding a heavy double-time in his ears. 

“I’m okay now, though.” Simon looks into the space that Baz isn’t blocking off anymore, but he doesn’t know how to cross it. 

“I know.” 

“I’m alive.” 

“You’re so alive....” 

Simon peers at him. Baz is looking away, chin tucked down, loose hair hanging in a curtain over his face. Simon’s chest clenches. This is more unbearable to witness than Baz wide-eyed and panicking and full of teeth. 

“Because of you, Baz.” Simon wishes he had something better to say. He wishes his voice didn’t sound so rough in this fragile moment. 

Baz keeps his head down. He’s grateful his pyjama bottoms have pockets—he shoves his hands in them, fearful he’ll do something irreversible otherwise. “Only just.” 

“That doesn’t matter.” Simon can’t take it. He shifts closer and places his hands on Baz’s upper arms. Baz stiffens but doesn’t move away. 

“I couldn’t cast anything,” Baz objects. 

“It wouldn’t have helped, remember?” Simon rubs his thumbs along the expensive fabric of Baz’s pyjama top. The coldness of Baz’s skin permeates the silk. 

“I nearly drained you.” 

“You didn’t.” Simon squeezes. “You didn’t, Baz. You had, fuck, you had every reason to, but you were so strong. I’m, I mean, I don’t know how you were so fucking _strong_.” Simon emits a grunt. He can’t get the words he wants. “You were amazing.” 

Simon’s hands on Baz’s arms are too warm, and they melt away all of Baz’s good sense. His body cries out to be closer. He tips forward, curling down until his forehead rests heavily on the outside edge of Simon’s broad shoulder. 

Baz needs to smell him, fresh from the shower, not covered in blood. Baz needs to hear his heartbeat, thudding with the renewed vigor of a second chance. Baz needs to feel that lick of Simon’s magic, always sparking just beneath the surface, to remind him that at the moment he was most like a monster, Simon was able to make him feel closer to human than ever before. 

Baz desperately clutches at the inside of his pockets. “I was so scared....” 

Simon swallows loudly. “Yeah. Me too.” 

“I don’t want you to die,” Baz professes into the fabric of Simon’s slightly damp tee. “Not by my hands. Not by anyone’s.” 

To Baz, it sounds far too close to ‘ _I love you_ ’ again. This time, it sounds a lot like that to Simon, too. 

“That’s not what you told Penny,” Simon says. Because he’s an idiot. 

Suddenly, Baz is upright again, at full-height, composed. Simon knows he fucked up. 

“And what did _you_ tell Bunce?” Baz snaps, pleased to find his voice mostly back in working order. 

Simon squares his shoulders and grips Baz’s arms harder. “You were there. I told her you’re my fucking savior, Baz.” 

Baz wrenches himself away from Simon’s grasp. “And after I left? I’m sure you had a lovely time reveling in ‘ _I told you so_ ’s about my vampirism.” Baz bares his teeth again. “Or did you save that revelation for once the Mage arrived, give him first honours?” 

“Baz, _what_ , no—” 

“How long do I have, Snow?” Baz gestures widely to their room. “Is he going to send his men to collect me in the middle of the night, or wait until classes so he can make as big a show of it as possible? Geld me and snap my wand in front of the whole school? Maybe call an assembly for it?” 

“You think I told the Mage?” Simon blurts, dumbfounded—and pissed. 

“Am I meant to assume you _didn't_?” Baz laughs derisively. “It's everything you've ever wanted!” 

Simon blusters angrily. “You're fucking thick today, Baz,” he barks out. “You're not off draining students, yeah?” 

“Of course not,” Baz snaps. 

“Then why in the seven hells would I tell the Mage?” Simon feels riled—does Baz really think he'd do that? He starts to pace, skin buzzing. Baz's nostrils twitch. “You drink rats or whatever? Okay, fine! It's not like I'm a vegetarian!” 

Baz's signature eyebrow lift is far too mild an expression for this; other than continuing to let his emotions get away from him, he's at a loss for what to do. 

“You've been trying to out me for years, Snow.” 

“Yeah, yeah I know,” Simon growls, at himself more than anything. “But you're not hurting anyone, so I don't see why the Mage needs to know.” 

“You lied to him?” Baz laughs, humorless. His face twists into a scowl before the mocking sound even has the chance to finish ringing out. “That's not very becoming of the Chosen One—harboring a dark creature, lying to your master.” 

Simon pulls at his hair in frustration. “You sound like you _want_ me to tell him, you crazy git!” 

“Maybe I do! Maybe I'm tired of all of this hiding! Maybe I'm tired of _existing like this_!” 

Simon's frazzled energy leaks out of him like a flat tire. He stares at Baz with soft, rounded eyes. 

(It doesn’t pass Simon’s notice that Baz didn’t say _living_ like this. He doesn’t know what to think of that.) 

Baz shrinks under Simon's empathetic scrutiny. He bites down on his lip, aggravating the twin wounds inside. It's a good reminder. It grounds him. 

“You don't have to hide here,” Simon says finally. He has to get this right. He can't cock this up again and risk pushing Baz away what little distance they've covered. “Here, and with me. No more hiding.” 

Baz chews on the shredded flesh. “It's not that simple....” 

“Nope,” Simon agrees. “Nothing about today's simple, is it?” Gingerly, he moves closer to Baz again. “But I kind of think we've just been over-complicating things.” 

“Of course you think that.” 

“Baz, for Merlin's sake,” Simon grunts, encroaching nearer. “Stop chewing that damn lip. Let me help.” 

Baz pinches his teeth down on the brutalized skin harder, drawing blood. It's the only thing he can do to keep himself from doing something truly insane. “Don't you dare.” 

“You kissed me earlier.” 

“That was completely different!” 

“Same spell.” 

“You're mad, Snow.” 

Simon is close enough that they have to tilt their chins in opposite fashions to maintain comfortable eye contact despite their difference in height. Baz doesn't throw his arm out as a shield this time. 

“We do drive each other a bit mad, don't we?” 

“Yes. Because we're enemies.” 

“Not anymore.” 

Simon is too close, and Baz can't breathe. Simon isn't entirely sure if he can, either. It's a new, alarming feeling. 

“Aren't we?” Baz says because he can't let himself believe otherwise. 

“No. We’re not trying to destroy each other anymore.” 

Baz tries his best to look impassive, while his throat constricts. “One kiss and you think the world is upside down.” 

Simon's eyes flit to Baz's lips. 

“Two kisses.” 

There are hundreds of ways Baz has imagined kissing Simon Snow, but none of them were like this. None of them were quite this fragile, both of their hearts sparking like live wires from the events of the day. None of them involved Baz standing there, shocked still, too fearful to breathe, far less participate. All he can manage is to close his eyes. 

Simon pulls back too soon (any amount of time is too soon). He lowers, rocking back down onto his heels. His heart is pounding wildly in his ears, and all he can think at first is whether or not Baz can hear it. 

And then all Simon can think is that he's fucked up again. Baz wasn't the least bit reciprocating—all stony and cold-lipped, a statue. Even now, he's quiet, eyes closed, unmoving save for the way his hands are flexing and unflexing at his sides. 

Simon swallows down a swell of embarrassed anxiety and takes a step back. 

“I know I did that to shut you up,” he stammers, voice too high, “but now I really need you to say something.” 

Simon's voice brings Baz back from his spiraling, dragging him from the coils of fear and restraint still keeping him back. The threads are weakening with every tug Simon gives them. 

Baz doesn’t want to be held back anymore. 

When Baz opens his eyes, they're stormy grey with desire. 

His voice comes out husky: “You didn't cast the spell.” 

Every part of Baz is tinder to Simon's tumultuous inferno of feelings, but this Baz, right now, is the most powerful accelerant Simon has ever known. He's fueled far past any semblance of thought—he surges forward and smashes his mouth to Baz's again. 

This kiss is closer to how Baz imagined. Fierce, angry, painful—quite painful, actually, as Simon's furious mouth shoves Baz's wounds up against his teeth anew. 

Baz hisses. In one swift motion, he grabs Simon's chin and shoves him off. Simon growls against it, but Baz doesn't relent, keeping Simon's face angled back and away. 

“Baz—” 

“You're hurting me, you numpty.” 

Simon's tension fizzles out again. Satisfied, Baz releases him and pulls his wand out from up his sleeve. He points it at Simon, and that usually would be cause for alarm, but Simon is no longer afraid. 

“ **Kiss it better** ,” Baz casts, voice low and powerful. 

Simon sucks in a breath as Baz's magic washes over him. He usually hates when people spell him, but Baz’s magic is something else entirely. Simon’s eyelids droop as a smoke so unlike his own blooms in his chest and causes his lips to glow and tingle. 

_This_ kiss is so much _better_ than anything Baz ever imagined, and not because of the magic. Simon's fingers are at his jaw, warm and a little clammy and so, so tender. This time, Baz is wise enough, foolish enough to kiss back. 

It's all so tentative as their lips slide and push. Baz lets Simon pull his bottom lip between his own, gently suckling, not out of a desire to make sure the magic brushes the wounds directly—the magic is barely an afterthought. Baz hums a prayer into Simon's mouth, and Simon breathes his own right back. This is the closest to heaven Baz will ever get, he assumes—and he's perfectly fine with that. 

Simon's jaw moves skillfully, making Baz both jealous and grateful. Their tongues are tentative and chaste as they let the tips touch. There's nothing urgent about the movements of their mouths, despite the days, months, years of bottled up desires. 

Eventually, Simon lowers himself away again—Baz's kissing is divine, but Simon is uneasy with the way Baz has remained so very still. Not touching Simon's face or hair or waist. No crack in his tense composure. 

They stare at each other. Baz finds his words caught in his throat. Simon's expression is vulnerable, and Baz wants nothing more than to assuage him, but he fears callous words he doesn't mean will break forth from his lips without Simon keeping them occupied. 

“Better?” comes Simon's small voice. He clears his throat. 

It _is_ better. _Everything_ is better like this. 

Baz sheds himself of the final dark tendril keeping him back. He lifts his hand to Simon's face for the second time today. No less shaky than earlier in the forest, but for a far better reason. Panicked, eager excitement spurs Baz to tenderly rub his thumb along the worried crease of Simon's brow, like he's wanted to do for centuries. 

“Not yet,” Baz lies. 

Simon is stunned for a moment—Baz's touch is more intimate than anything he's ever experienced, and the soft look in Baz's eyes must be love. No one has ever looked at him like that before. 

Then, Simon laughs. 

There's nothing to feel self-conscious about. 

With one hand, he clutches Baz's wrist, intent on keeping Baz's cold touch on his flushed face; with the other, he grabs Baz by the back of the neck and pulls him down for another kiss. 

Four (five) kisses. This is the one that gives Simon wings—his heart soars. He didn't know this is what kissing is supposed to feel like. He didn't know Baz wanted this too. There's so much he didn't know. But now, there's so much he _does_ know: 

Baz's hair is as soft as Simon's always suspected. Baz purrs when Simon rubs the base of his neck. Baz's mouth is warmer than the rest of him and heats up quickly. Baz tastes like something Simon wants to eat—which isn't a stretch, he knows this too, but it's a comforting taste, like the home-cooked meals he sometimes gets to have at Penny's. 

And now Baz knows new things too, the things he's only ever been able to desperately speculate on. The feel of Simon's curls slipping between his fingers, the sugary heat of his mouth, the sound of his pleasure when Baz yanks him closer by the waist, the feel of their chests pushed together. 

It's somewhat less chaste, markedly less fragile, and no less adoring. They take their time kissing while exploring each other with quivering fingertips—face, jaw, neck, hair, shoulders, back—

Baz hisses and yanks away from Simon's kissing for the second time. 

Simon startles. “What?” he asks breathlessly. 

Baz shakes his head and takes Simon's arms, pulling him away from where his touch was daring to explore Baz's shoulder blades. 

“What is it?” Simon asks again, narrowing his eyes. And because he can see Baz conjuring up a lie, he continues on: “Are you injured somewhere else?” 

“It's fine,” Baz insists, even as Simon makes to move around him. “Snow, really—” 

Simon gets behind Baz and grasps at his shirt, yanking it up. Baz yelps indignantly and tugs it back down before Simon can fully see. He only catches a glimpse of something, too high on Baz's back. He whirls around to the front of Baz and hurriedly pushes the first half of the buttons of Baz's shirt open. Baz gawks at him, sputtering out a “Crowley, Snow!” in protest. 

Simon makes quick work of loosening the shirt enough to shove it over Baz's shoulders, and then circles to the back again to see what Baz wants to hide. 

“ _Merlin…_ ,” Simon gasps. 

The wound is purple and inflamed and angry and _deep_. Fuck, it's terrifyingly deep. 

Simon stumbles back a step. He can't take his eyes off the horrible cross mark branded into Baz's pale flesh. Stomach lurching in horror, Simon slowly lifts his hand to grasp the offending jewelry, still around his own neck. 

“I won't die from it,” Baz murmurs after a pregnant silence. 

Suddenly, Simon is hauling himself across the room. He throws open the window and unceremoniously tears the cross off his neck, a piece of the broken chain flying off. And then he's launching it into the moat with all his might. 

Baz is stunned. Simon is too, really. Dr. Wellbelove gave him that—he probably shouldn't have just gifted it to the merwolves. 

Simon wheels on Baz when he starts laughing. 

“A slight overreaction, but the sentiment is appreciated,” Baz chuckles. He's smiling. It's not quite worth smiling at _this_ brightly, but he can't find the will to cloud his expression with something tamer. Simon is a beautiful, impulsive disaster, and Baz couldn't be more grateful. 

Simon returns to him in an instant. “Spell me again,” he urges. 

Baz lifts a brow. “What?” 

“I'll kiss it better.” 

“You can't,” Baz says around the way his heart flutters in his throat. “It's too deep.” 

“That's what you said earlier.” Simon presses his hands to Baz's chest, to his cool, exposed skin. And then he gives a push. 

A full-bodied shiver runs through Baz as Simon's magic blows his blood vessels wide open. Power trembles through him, and before he can think, he's pointing his wand at Simon again and casting the spell with a steady boom 

“ **Kiss it better!** ” 

The feedback loop of Simon's magic channeling through Baz, who then turns it back on Simon is so horrifyingly intense, it sends both of them reeling backward. Simon recovers quickly though, rushing around behind Baz to eagerly press his lips against the monstrous wound he inflicted. 

Baz winces, and then sighs. It's a painful sensation, the skin crawling and stretching and morphing under Simon's ministrations. The discomfort doesn't last for long. Simon keeps kissing and kissing, desperation turning into feather-light apologies. Baz's body thrums with this more than the magic. 

“ _Simon_ …,” he exhales. 

“Sorry.” Simon runs his lips along the new skin. “Fuck...so sorry....” 

“Better?” Baz asks, already knowing the answer. 

Simon noses him there. “Better,” he murmurs. 

It _is_ better. There's no need to carry that cross along his shoulders, not when kisses seem to solve things so well. 

Still, Baz is afraid. What does any of this mean? Surely none of this was just about healing injuries with kisses. He wants to ask. They need to talk about this. But they’ve always been awful at talking. 

Baz breathes. He thinks on the one successful heart-to-heart they managed to have a mere two nights ago. (It feels worlds away now.) 

“Now what?” Baz asks into the room. 

Simon wraps his arms around Baz's waist and tucks close to his back. He pushes his nose into Baz's neck. 

“Now we hold each other for a while,” the room answers back. 

Baz folds his arms on top of Simon’s. His thumb rubs over the back of a hand lightly dusted with freckles. “And then?” 

“By a while, I think I meant always.” 

“Always is a long time,” Baz says because he’s difficult. 

Simon isn’t deterred. He smiles against Baz’s exposed skin. “Good thing you’re a vampire. We’ve got plenty of time.” 

Baz shifts in Simon’s arms—neither one are willing to part entirely, fingers lightly dragging anywhere they can as Baz turns around. 

Baz stares at Simon. He still doesn’t know what to say to Simon directly, but he wants to be pierced by those boring blue eyes. 

“Will you live forever?” Simon asks slowly. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Well.” Simon heaves a big shrug. “We’ve got a while before we have to worry about that.” 

Baz’s lips turn down. “I believe we have more pressing concerns, my dear Capulet.” 

Simon smirks. “How come I’m Juliet? You’re the one with the long hair.” 

Baz’s eyebrow shoots up. Simon laughs and coaxes him down for a short kiss. Baz can’t believe any of it. 

“What is this?” Baz asks, despite dreading the answer. Good or bad, he dreads it either way. 

“Um...it’s....” Simon’s gaze flits along Baz’s face, taking him in deliberately for the first time. 

It’s all there, everything Simon’s always paid distant attention to: Baz’s long lashes and stormy eyes; his wicked widow’s peak and silky curtain of hair, free from its gel, the way Simon likes it best; the line of his sharp cheekbones all the way down to full, pale, soft lips; his high nose and the twist at the tip from when Simon smashed it in a few years back. Every facet of Baz is mesmerizing, and it always has been, but seeing him this close, this open, is something else entirely. Something to cherish. 

“I don’t know,” Simon finally says. How could he possibly put into words the way Baz is making him feel right now? He’s terrible with words on a good day, and this is far too momentous to be summarized with bumbling speech. 

Simon’s stomach drops when Baz’s expression shifts. Right when he was thinking he could look at Baz’s soft gaze forever, Baz closes his eyes briefly, schooling his features. He places his hands on Simon’s shoulders and nudges him back. 

“I know exactly what it is,” Baz says, hating himself all the while. 

“What?” 

Baz ignores the disgruntled pucker of Simon’s brow. 

“It’s reverse Nightingale syndrome.” 

Simon’s face scrunches up further. “What the fuck?” 

When Baz tries to step back, put some distance between them, Simon grips his wrist. Baz frees his hand easily and sets about fixing his pyjama shirt, still open and shoved off his shoulders. 

“You’re feeling attached to me because I saved your life,” he begins. His voice finally feels somewhat under his own control. It has to be. He can’t keep messing up like this. “The adrenaline of today’s events has confused you—more than usual. You’re conflating relief and appreciation with affection.” 

Simon scowls. “That sounds like a bunch of rot.” 

“I’m not surprised you think so.” Here is where Baz should sneer. He can’t manage it. He smoothes out his shirt once it’s all buttoned up and makes for his bed. 

Simon refuses to accept this. He grabs at Baz’s elbow, rougher this time, harder to shake off. 

“Why are you doing this?” 

“Let go of me, Snow,” he hisses, keeping himself turned away despite the tight grip Simon has on him. 

“No. I meant what I said,” Simon grunts defiantly. “We’re going to hold each other. I know you want that, too.” 

Panic burns at Baz’s skin, at all his senses. “ _Let go_ ,” he repeats through his teeth. 

“This isn’t some stupid psychology assignment, Baz!” Simon yanks at Baz’s elbow—he needs Baz to turn around, needs Baz to look at him with softness and love like before—he needs that to not have been fake— 

Baz snarls and wrenches his arm in Simon’s grip. He’s strong, but no matter what Simon thinks of him, he isn’t actually strong _enough_. He’s a monster and he’s so in love and he _isn’t strong enough_ to keep this up— 

The next thing Simon knows, he’s been grabbed roughly. For a terrifying moment, he fears Baz is going to attack him. _No, no, the Anathema, no no no—!_ It’s all that flashes through his head, but the words don’t come, choked in his panicked throat. 

And then the next thing Simon knows, he’s being thrown. He lands on his back, on something soft, and his shoulders are shoved down, and there’s a weight on his hips, and this time all he can think is: _he could have killed me so many times over by now._

Baz’s fearful gasps for breath bring Simon back. They stare at each other, each wide-eyed and confused. Baz is pinning him to his bed, straddling Simon’s lap, and looking as terrified as he did in the woods earlier today. 

Now, all Simon can think is that Baz is far more easily frightened than Simon would have ever thought. _Of me. He’s afraid of me._

Simon exhales and relaxes under Baz. He isn’t being attacked. He isn’t going to die, not today. He isn’t unwanted. He knows this. He also knows that Baz is here, and Baz wants him alive, and Baz loves him—and that Baz is terrified by all of these things. 

_Not afraid of me. Afraid of how I make him feel._

Simon can’t stop the grin and flush that spread across his face. “It’s okay.” 

His soft, steady voice makes Baz recoil from the tight grasp of anxiety freezing him in place. He thought he had rid himself of it entirely, but no, he’ll never be truly rid of it. That’s not how it works. 

Baz jumps back so that he’s no longer hovering over Simon or pinning him down. But he’s too stupefied by his own outburst to do much more than that. He presses his weight back on Simon’s thighs, and he merely sits there, staring down in breathless horror at what he’s done. 

Simon reaches for Baz’s wrist, slow and cautious. Baz lets him, because the world truly is upside down today, and all of his attempts to right it have gone to shit. 

“You’re right we’re both fucked up on adrenaline, huh?” Simon’s still flushed and grinning. “But it’s not making us feel something we didn’t already feel. It’s just bringing it out.” 

Baz’s expression pinches up again. He has to close his eyes and clamp his mouth shut. Maybe he should be quiet for the rest of the day. Ignore all of this until the anxiety and adrenaline and adoration fade back into something manageable. But he’s never been good at ignoring the raging inferno of Simon Snow. 

“I almost died, Baz,” Simon reminds. He carefully watches the way Baz’s eyebrows twitch up and in. Pained. “I could still die any day now, and I’ve always known that—so I’ve been holding back on stuff. But that’s not living, is it?” 

Baz keeps his eyes shut and struggles to swallow around the myriad of emotions thick in his throat. He’s so flammable and wants nothing more than to be immolated by Simon’s words and too-good kisses. He can’t possibly put his warring fears and desires into words. And for once, he doesn’t have to, because Simon is doing it for both of them. 

Simon rubs his thumb along the inside of Baz’s wrist. There’s a heavy pulse there. “Neither one of us are dead yet, though. So let’s stop acting like it.” 

Baz can’t take it. He exhales roughly, a soft keening note bursting forth from his traitorous vocal cords. He folds over himself, crumpling, until his head is resting on Simon’s sternum. He trembles as Simon’s other hand cards through his hair in repetitive, soothing patterns. 

“I thought I was going to lose you....” Baz confesses wetly. He breathes, harsh and heavy, into Simon's chest. 

“You didn’t.” Simon stares down at Baz’s head. He marvels at this scared boy, head bowed and crying against him, for the second time today. “I’m here. I’m yours. I know you want that. Stop pretending we both don’t want that.” 

Baz shifts his hand in Simon’s grip, and Simon lets him. He threads their fingers together, tight. Simon smiles. 

“Stay with me, Baz,” he murmurs, under far better circumstances this time. 

Baz trembles. “All right....” 

Simon presses his nose into Baz’s hair. They stay that way for a long moment. Then, Baz slowly eases himself back so that he can stare at the miracle in his bed. Simon’s heart is thudding hard enough for both of them to hear. 

“What about the war?” Baz asks, the concern too large and barbed to keep back any longer. 

Simon shrugs. “Same as always. I’ll keep fighting the Humdrum, and the dark creatures.” He smirks and brushes his thumb across Baz’s bottom lip, which earns his finger a featherlight kiss. “The bad ones,” he amends. “The ones who are actually trying to kill me, not just pretending. And I’ll work extra hard to not get killed.” 

“And the other war?” Baz is too weak not to press his cheek into Simon’s hand. “With the Families?” 

Simon shrugs again. It’s not important. The only important thing is the feel of Baz’s cool cheek under his touch. 

“A shrug isn’t an answer, Snow.” 

“That’s the Mage’s war,” Simon says casually. 

Baz arches a brow. “You’re the Mage’s _Heir_.” 

“That doesn’t mean I have to do everything he says, right?” Simon tries to raise his eyebrow as Baz does, but both go up instead, leaving him looking more confused than speculative. “You don’t do everything your dad says, do you?” 

“Of course not.” 

“Then there you go.” 

“You’re over-simplifying things again.” 

Simon grins. “And you like that.” 

Baz’s sigh is answer enough. 

“Besides, I don’t even understand the politics of that war half the time.” 

Baz’s smirk would also be answer enough, but he doesn’t leave it there: “Half sounds like a gross exaggeration.” 

Simon grunts, but then laughs. “Sure, but fuck you for saying so.” 

Baz can’t resist laughing too, at least for a brief moment. Then, his expression evens out and he sits back further. Simon’s hand falls away from his face, and neither one of them are particularly pleased about it. But their other hands are still joined, and Baz is clutching tightly despite all his attempts at withdrawing. 

“Snow, this is all lovely in theory, but—” 

“Baz—mother of Morgana— _shut up_ ,” Simon groans. “Whatever’s going on with that war doesn’t involve us. It’s between the Mage and the Old Families.” 

“ _I’m_ the Old Families, Snow.” 

“Then it’s between the Mage and you!” he moans. “Leave me out of it. Me swinging a sword around and going off isn’t going to help that war, anyway.” 

Baz purses his lips. Simon has a point, and they both know Baz knows that. Simon grins. 

“Good now? Satisfied, Romeo?” 

Baz exhales a huff through his nose. “Perhaps.” 

Now, Simon’s giving Baz a look that makes his throat clog up in an entirely new way—a very welcome way. A way that’s thrilling, not frightening. Baz takes it in for a moment, relishing in the flush along Simon’s speckled cheeks, the slight droop of his lids, the stupid smile on his kissable lips. 

Yes, that’s right. Simon is kissable, so perfectly kissable.... 

This kiss feels _right_. Not pained or desperate or fearful. They’ve had enough of those emotions for one day—for more than that, surely, but Baz will be satisfied with being rid of them for the rest of this day. For having Simon Snow in his arms for the rest of this day. 

As Simon’s fingers thread through his hair, as his tongue lazily tangles with Baz’s, as his chest presses up in the desire to be closer, Baz feels hot flickers of confidence in his veins. Simon’s _magic_ doesn’t need to sear him open—instead, Simon is pushing in his love, flooding Baz with it until he knows nothing else, until he loses his edges in the most pristine way. His heart is so full of Simon Snow—as a _gift_ , not a one-sided obsession. As something gained, not lost. 

And that’s when Baz knows. This will last more than the rest of this day. Simon won’t regret this come morning. 

It’s even easier to believe that when they stop to catch their breaths, and Simon stretches out under Baz and gives him a shitty grin. 

“You know, that medical cot sure was uncomfortable.” 

“Mhm.” 

“My neck and shoulders are just _killing_ me.” 

“Mmhm.” 

“Wanna kiss it bett— _ah_....” 

“ _Mmm_....” 

**Author's Note:**

> I just couldn't get the idea out of my head of using "kiss it better" as a spell that would put them in the worst spot possible. I hope you enjoyed this extremely self-indulgent fic, 💦  
> Thank you for reading!


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